


Be A Shepherd

by th3rm0pyl43



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12427044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3rm0pyl43/pseuds/th3rm0pyl43
Summary: After ten days of going through the nine hells and back, the award ceremony is when the freshly-minted General Veers hits rock bottom.





	Be A Shepherd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [White_Rainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rainbow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Find Me...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742426) by [White_Rainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rainbow/pseuds/White_Rainbow). 



He walks away with his head held high, chest puffed out, shoulders squared, body tensed, hands behind his back. Tall and powerful, like a freshly-minted general ought to be. Indominable.

And yet he’s broken, a crack running deep in both his flesh and mind like a boulder breaking apart from within.

The hems of the gloves - finest black nerf leather, but too damn long for his tastes - tickling the insides of his wrists makes the back of his neck tingle and his fingers twitch. His new uniform, crafted lovingly by a Coruscanti tailor, is warm and comfortable and fits perfectly, but he feels unworthy of it. He has to admit that he rather enjoys the way the durasteel-toed, spit-polished boots announce his arrival with thunder on the floor, and the cut of the tunic brings out his raw strength -

\- and yet he has never felt so weak before.

The medal, no larger than the palm of his hand - solid aurodium with kyber intarsia, gleaming but cold, so  _cold_  - rests like the weight of a war machine against his chest, his heart pounding against it.

The medal is more than an award - it is a twistedly beautiful reminder of those he had not been able to protect.

The wound he had paid with, that slash through skin and muscle, still hasn’t healed. Just like the medal, it would always be his burden to bear.

With every step he takes, the cracks spread and the rifts deepen and the medal, that blasted thing, feels ever heavier. The gold and blue strap it is anchored to feels misplaced. The gloves are an intrusion, the uniform too good for him, the rank bars too shiny to be his own. He feels like an imposter, a farce, even a  _liar_. Were he not certain that his mind is whispering lies to him, he would have believed that sinking feeling that the strap is choking him. 

He wishes the endless void of interstellar space could simply swallow him whole and put an end to what he knows to be a mess beyond salvaging in his head.

Only when he finally is out of sight of those countless scrutinizing,  _judging_  eyes does he allow himself to shatter, crumble and break. The gloves land on the floor, quivering hands covering his face as he leans on the wall and bares his teeth in silent agony.

"I am here, Maximilian" comes a sharp, yet soothing familiar voice, and within a heartbeat, he is holding on to its owner's lean form as if for dear life. "You are safe here, Max. You are not being judged. They understand."

"No... no, they don't" he croaks, his voice cracking. "They know what I've done, Wil. I know they all despise me for that."

" _No_ " Tarkin says firmly, remaining calmly in Veers’ crushing embrace and returning it in a much more gentle manner. "They know what you've done, and they  _value_  you for it. Perhaps you do not yet understand that surviving this only evidences your strength, but they do. And so do I."

Veers only shivers and grimaces. There are no tears - he is too numb to cry, and it would only worsen the smoldering pain of the wound. The medal still presses against his chest with all the weight of his guilt, as if it wanted to kill him like a snake choked its prey.

That mere thought adds revulsion to the roiling mess of emotions in Veers' stomach. Dealing with death is a part of his career - and his career is his life now - but whenever his whirling thoughts stray into the dangerous territory of contemplating his own death, sheer disgust always shakes him out of it. Even when has hit rock bottom now, he draws the line there.

_No. I will not let myself fall so low. I will survive... and I will_  live.

Veers loosens his grip. Tarkin's slender fingers carefully slide under the medal and lift its massive imaginary weight off his hurting chest.

"I... I don't want this blasted thing" Veers says tiredly, still quivering. "But... it's a burden I'm going to have to carry. If I just weaseled out of it, I'd be spitting on my dead men's graves."

"Do not be too hard on yourself, General" Tarkin responds softly. "I highly doubt your men would like seeing you be so self-destructive. Honor their souls by making sure their brothers-in-arms are in good hands. Allow yourself to heal, Maximilian, and be a shepherd to your flock... or should I say, your Thundering Herd."

He gently lowers the medal again to let it rest on the spot above the bandages, with the wound below, and this time it feels only as heavy as it truly weighs. Veers is speechless, hands resting limply on the Grand Moff's bony shoulders. Even the stabbing pain in his chest seems to have faded to a dull ache.

_Be a shepherd_.

And a shepherd he becomes.

Recovery seems impossible at first. Mind and body are whole and yet broken, one left in numbness from being brought to breaking point, the other beaten, lashed and cut and then slashed through with that horrific serrated blade. There are setbacks and relapses, but sheer determination and loving care overcome those hardships, step by step.

Over time, the wounds, deep as they are, heal and leave everlasting marks of valor. Flesh becomes armor, hardened with growing strength and hammered into shape like wrought iron. What once was the stab of guilt is forged into a sword, the dark pall of grief into an indestructible shield.

Three little words lend wings to General 'Iron Max' Veers. From a mere commander, he remakes himself into a guardian knight in service to those he leads. The spark that had lit the carefully nurtured flame was his most trusted friend reminding him that he was strong enough to stand back up on his own when he had been beaten down, and encouraging him to  _be a shepherd_.

Only a year has passed when he is asked to give a speech after a spectacular victory. As he honors the fallen, as few in number they are, and praises their valiant sacrifices, he looks over to the two who had made it all possible in the first place - the major and the Grand Moff. Lile’s smile is more radiant than a star, showing how elated they are at seeing how well their care and support has paid off. Tarkin sheds a tear, proud of his friend and protégé beginning to make history. And behind them - 

Hazel eyes meet brilliant rubies again, and that is the only sign Veers needs to know that the time has come.


End file.
